Renegade

It had been a statement rather than a question, but Bolan knew it was also a request to take action. “Do what you’ve got to do, Jack,” he said.

Stony Man Farm’s number-one flyboy didn’t have to be told twice. Suddenly and without warning, the Bell made a 180-degree turn and began flying backward through the air. The mountains and the lights of Oom had disappeared. But the lights on both MiGs could be seen as the Iranian jets raced toward them.

Reaching forward, Grimaldi pushed a button. Bolan felt the chopper vibrate slightly as the missile pod fell into firing position. A second later the little Bell shook even more as the Stinger missile took off.

“I activated a four-second detonator,” Grimaldi said. “It should blow up a few hundred feet in front of him.” He swung the Bell back around as the night sky lit up behind them. “Just wanted to show him we had some teeth of our own. Maybe that’ll drain a little of their enthusiasm.”

Bolan smiled as he watched the mirror next to him. The Stinger had indeed taken a lot of the fun out of the chase for the MiG pilots behind them. In fact, one of the planes had changed course completely and was heading back the way it had come. The other MiG was already gone.

Even the radio had finally gone silent.

Two minutes later they reached the Kuhha-Zagros Mountains. Although the MiGs were gone and no other planes had taken their place, Bolan directed Grimaldi to play it safe, staying close to the peaks where they could drop down at the first sign of further pursuit.

“I can just follow the mountains on in if you want me to,” the pilot said. “Isfahan’s sort of on the edge.”

Bolan looked at his watch. Sobor had been on the ground for at least two hours now. There was no telling where the man might be. So there was no sense in risking further exposure for nothing. “Okay, Jack,” he said. “Take the mountains past Isfahan, then come back up from the south.”

The pilot nodded.

The Executioner suddenly remembered the mustache he had applied to his upper lip earlier in the evening. With a little time on his hands before they reached Isfahan, he unfastened his seat belt, went back to the cargo area and removed it with rubbing alcohol and a towel. By the time he got back to his seat, Grimaldi was banking the helicopter back around. A small village could be seen below them. “Yazd,” the pilot said.

“That more of your dirty Farsi, Jack?” Bolan asked.

“Nope. Just the name of the town.”

Bolan reached into his jacket and pulled out the cell phone again. When he got no dial tone, he directed Grimaldi higher above the mountains. Finally the call to Stony Man went through. “We ran into a little trouble, Barb,” he told Price. “Slowed us down. There’s no telling where Sobor is now. Did Bear check again to see if Dieter Schneider might have booked another flight after he got to Isfahan?”

“He did,” Price said. “No such luck. Dieter Schneider appears to have vanished into thin air. But you might be interested in knowing that a Jean-Marc Bernhardt just checked into the Shah Abbas Hotel in downtown Isfahan.”

KITWANA ASAB STOOD on the peer, staring out at the white-capped waters of the incoming tide. It was beautiful, the way the waves rolled in toward land. They hit the side of the ship, parted and metamorphosed into thousands of tiny ripples as they moved gently on into shore.